"...captures the old spirit of Roots and Country music..."
— RJ Frometa, Vents Magazine

"It’s an explanation of the Universal order."
— Come Here Floyd
The notion of a songwriter recording in Nashville is of course a bit cliche and the fact this album’s title has "Volume 1" appended to it either indicates ambition or just cheekiness.  The main purpose of the album was to make sure there were some definitive versions of these E.G. Phillips compositions committed, or perhaps, consigned, to that vast digital cloud.

Nashville Recordings Vol. 1 was actually recorded in East Nashville, which is appropriate because Phillips considers himself "Nashville adjacent" at best (or worst, depending on your point of view) — tolerated by, perhaps even vaguely amusing the locals when he's passed through that way with his "troubadour crooner" stylings

E.G. has a particular fondness for these tunes and other artists have performed them at EGPhest, a little shindig he's put together over the past few years where he invites folks from the local music scene in San Francisco to come perform one of his songs for the occasion of his birthday.

“The Fish Song” of course has already appeared on the full album “Fish from the Sky” but we get a more county-tinged version here to open up the whole affair.  The lyrics covers a wide variety of topics — gastronomy, ecology, theology… ichthyology — but mostly it is about advice — the sort of advice someone who senses you need help in the romance department feels compelled to impart upon you, even though it is neither wholly original nor all that helpful.  This is Phillips' response to said advice.  It is admittedly a rather Swiftian diatribe (Jonathan, not Taylor) so it may not be for the faint of heart.

Three additional songs round out the EP. “You Are Not Her” deals with deja vu but not of a place or experience, but of a person.  “Mama Make the Red Bird Come Back” concerns one of those stories your parents like to tell about your childhood at inopportune occasions ad nauseam. “Lullaby for the Unloved” is a somewhat, shall we say, “untraditional” lullaby — a lullaby that wraps what starts as a daydream of a road trip and then proceeds to traipse darkly through subsequent reminiscences.  These are songs that are personal and self-reflective that (hopefully?) don't ever becoming maudlin.  There are bits of self-deprecation sprinkled amongst earnest quests for succor and surcease of sorrow, all buoyed by friendly indie-folk type musical arrangements.

Produced by Kenny Schick (who handles the majority of the instrumentation) of Basement 3 Productions , this humble volume features contributions from Amberly Rosen on violin, Smith Curry on pedal steel, and Sabiné Heusler-Schick (Artemesia Black) on backing vocals.
The Fish Song
​
​They'll try and cram platitudes in a man
Just jam 'em in — he's a tuna can
Like "There are many fish in the sea" and
"God has touched each grain of sand”
Well, it sounds to me like someone has
Too much time on His hands
And I don't want to have to spend
All my life as a fisherman

If I catch a fish, should I
Draw her from her waters?
Watch her flop about my deck
Before I cut and gut her?
Cook her up in olive oil and
Serve her up for supper?
And once I have consumed her, I
Should have to catch another?

Well soon the seas shall be empty
For all men will go fishing
Until appetites are satisfied and
That's just wishful thinking
They're polluting all our rivers with their
Lines and constant angling
They'll cast a net around the world
That’s as choking as entangling

If you feed a man a fish, you’ll
Fill his belly for a night — but if you
Teach a man to fish, he’s
Famished but he's occupied
I’m so sick of baiting hooks with
Fancy lures and worms and flies, I’d
Rather sail on aimless-like and
Hope that fish fall from the sky
​
Perhaps I ought to dry my skin
'Til it flakes and scales
Shed my forelimbs for some fins and
Spin myself a tail
Hold my breath till I develop gills or the
Blowhole of a whale
Then I can make some plans to
Join all those fish in the sea
If they'll have me

Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back

When I was all of three years old
I saw a cardinal in our back yard
I watched through the window
When it flew away I cried so hard:

Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back

Neighborhood boys once discovered
A dead cardinal in the gutter
They made me cut off its head
And pluck out all its feathers

Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back

Mama can’t make that red bird come back
Nobody can
You’ll just have to be patient and hope
It flies this way again

I saw Beth at her least confident
And I’ve seen her at her best
And though she'd never believe me
They were one and the same and I felt blest
​
Mama, Make The Red Bird Come Back
Your mama can’t make it do that
But I want that red bird back
Mamas don’t make red birds come back
You Are Not Her

​I tend to forget You Are Not Her – it’s an easy mistake to make
You look and act enough alike,
But when you draped your arms over my shoulders
As we parted last night
The shock of remembering threw me for a
I must have looked like I had just been
Accused of murder

I tend to forget You Are Not Her – you don’t have the memories
That she and I have shared
That bizarre hayride with those rowdy Christian boys –
They had us both terrified
Or that one night when we nuzzled on her bed
A stray phone call kept it from
Going any further

It’s become so much harder to give my heart away, and
Although they become fewer with every passing day
The temptation is to always
Put it off until the next
​Tomorrow

I tend to forget You Are Not Her – it’s not that I’m suffering
From that mental disorder
Which causes someone to think that all their loved ones
Have been replaced by imposters
Sometimes I think I’m damaged far beyond repair
But it may just be I’m a
Pathetically slow learner

Lullaby for the Unloved
​ (Mari’s Menagerie of Sands)

Oh my dear, your are so tired
And you need a rest
Oh my dear, it's time to sail on back
Sail back to where they love you best

Whenever I run into Etsu,
I feel like Persona Non Grata
Maybe it’s time I took
Another trip down through Baja
Buy myself a hand made guitar as
I pass through Ensenada
Drive through all that desert,
Surrounded by a whole lot of nada

I still have that Tupperware container
Filled with Mari’s menagerie of sands
That she had collected
From all the beaches where we stopped and camped
Oh but these days I only burn
I never tan
So maybe it’s not really
The best of plans

Such a simple girl — she’s the only one
That ever really got this poor duffer
When I broke it off with her,
She knew how much I’d suffer
I miss her company
I miss her as a lover
I keep trying to find her again
In one form or another
​
Oh my dear, you are so tired
And you are in distress
Of my dear, it’s time to fly on back
Fly back to where they love you best